Phase XVI: A Hopeless Cry From The Forgotten Man
Upon my podium, as the
Know it all scholar
Down in my seat of judgement
Gavel's bang, uphold the law
Up on my soapbox, a leader
Out to change the world
Down in my pulpit as the holier
Than-thou-could-be-messenger of God
- From Megadeth - Holy Wars...and the Punishment Due
A wave of disgust hit his pale, bespectacled face. What was this inked piece of paper he held in his hands? It was all just unintelligible gibberish. He was a truckie, he had no need for this "experimental poetry" or whatever it was called. His heart-shaped glasses merely blurred the distinctions even further. He sat down in his paisley recliner chair, a beer in one hand, remote in the other. Twelve hour days took a toll on his mind and all he felt like doing was resting, just resting. He didn't have time for his kids' whining about the next thing that they wanted, or their frustration at trying to be artists (or taking too many drugs to realize their "dreams".), he just wanted to watch some TV and perhaps have a good meal at the pub. A simple man, with simple pleasures. Yet his progeny scorned him for being just that. A simple man with simple pleasures. He had worked hard to put a roof over their heads, give them food to eat and buy expensive computers he couldn't even begin to comprehend. They didn't even thank him, they grabbed it all as if it were their god-given birthright. They wouldn't last five seconds on a factory floor.
He scratched his greasy head from underneath his hat. He didn't get it. He hated the way they'd talk down at him, treat him as if he was stupid. A frown permanently set upon his wrinkled, bearded chin. He wondered if his daughter had any real friends, in the way she carried herself. She lived in a world of illusion, a dream perpetuated by their own constructed realm of self-flattery and blind indulgence. He wasn't a fucking idiot. He was a dreamer too, but they would never know. He was the forgotten man, a man who lost the fire in his eyes, lost to a world turning too fast for him to keep up. And so he sat, flipping over to another game show, content with his beer, hat and paisley chair.
Know it all scholar
Down in my seat of judgement
Gavel's bang, uphold the law
Up on my soapbox, a leader
Out to change the world
Down in my pulpit as the holier
Than-thou-could-be-messenger of God
- From Megadeth - Holy Wars...and the Punishment Due
A wave of disgust hit his pale, bespectacled face. What was this inked piece of paper he held in his hands? It was all just unintelligible gibberish. He was a truckie, he had no need for this "experimental poetry" or whatever it was called. His heart-shaped glasses merely blurred the distinctions even further. He sat down in his paisley recliner chair, a beer in one hand, remote in the other. Twelve hour days took a toll on his mind and all he felt like doing was resting, just resting. He didn't have time for his kids' whining about the next thing that they wanted, or their frustration at trying to be artists (or taking too many drugs to realize their "dreams".), he just wanted to watch some TV and perhaps have a good meal at the pub. A simple man, with simple pleasures. Yet his progeny scorned him for being just that. A simple man with simple pleasures. He had worked hard to put a roof over their heads, give them food to eat and buy expensive computers he couldn't even begin to comprehend. They didn't even thank him, they grabbed it all as if it were their god-given birthright. They wouldn't last five seconds on a factory floor.
He scratched his greasy head from underneath his hat. He didn't get it. He hated the way they'd talk down at him, treat him as if he was stupid. A frown permanently set upon his wrinkled, bearded chin. He wondered if his daughter had any real friends, in the way she carried herself. She lived in a world of illusion, a dream perpetuated by their own constructed realm of self-flattery and blind indulgence. He wasn't a fucking idiot. He was a dreamer too, but they would never know. He was the forgotten man, a man who lost the fire in his eyes, lost to a world turning too fast for him to keep up. And so he sat, flipping over to another game show, content with his beer, hat and paisley chair.